Heroes Don't Exist
by sevrynbellastrowe
Summary: When a mysterious girl bursts through the open door of 221B Baker Street, a sinister plot is revealed that could destroy everything the brilliant sleuth and the kind-hearted doctor hold dear. As the line between friend and foe blurs and the stakes rise to a shattering climax, will the Baker Street boys survive long enough to solve this final puzzle?
1. An Unexpected Party

**A/N: Hullo there, and welcome to my first Sherlock fanfic. This story takes place after the season four finale, "The Final Problem." Rated M for future chapters, which will probably contain a fair amount of violence, adult themes, and some language. I hope you enjoy!**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the world from BBC's Sherlock, and is not a part of the official story line. I have no ownership over these characters or the world, and no profit is being made from this story. Many thanks to the Sherlock creators—without their brilliance, the magnificent adaptation of Conan Doyle's stories wouldn't exist.

* * *

 **Chapter One: An Unexpected Party**

Margaret sat in the back of the fully packed college classroom, staring at the wall-to-wall chalkboard crowded with numbers. It was a long mathematical problem, filling each square millimeter of the board. At the top was a title: _Extra credit!_ The students were already frantically scribbling on pieces of scratch paper, attempting to solve it. None of them would—even if they were given years to stare at it. No, no one in this room could solve that problem. Accept for Margaret, of course.

It was the first day. They were all freshman, anxiously trying to win favor of the Professor before the year began. Favoritism was always the deciding factor. Margaret lazily wrote one symbol on her paper before turning it over and continuing to look around at the class full of naïve students. She practically had a PhD in this subject, yet she was sitting here, pretending to be one of them, one of the _ordinary_. She sighed. Only for this one day. Even if it was an embarrassment to her ego.

Finally, the professor strolled in with an apathetic frown on his face, dark brown, slicked back hair, and a walking cane that he barely used. He just touched it to the floor as he walked, not actually using it for bodily support. She suspected that it was not, in fact, a walking cane, but something more to his character. He was dressed sharply—a Westwood, if she wasn't overshooting—and wore a silver tiepin that she immediately recognized.

He walked to the board and hurriedly wrote _Professor Moran_. She stifled a snort. Even the great consulting criminal could give himself away through sentiment. How interesting.

She zoned out for the next hour and a half, planning her next moves carefully in her head so she wasn't caught off guard. She could vaguely hear his thick Irish accent in the background, explaining simple math to ordinary people who wouldn't understand the importance of the laws, the sequences, and the patterns. He rarely stopped for questions. He never asked for answers. He just taught. Margaret suspected he wasn't planning on staying here for more than a day, either. She suspected he knew something of her appearance here in Dublin.

She didn't snap out of her trance until the classroom was clearing out. Images floated in and out of her mind, reminding her of what needed to be done, what she was going to do. She could hear the helicopters and the voice on the megaphone, scratchy with fear and worn from age. She heard the gunshot, the body slamming down onto the pavement, blood gushing from the wound in his head. She felt the fear, the... sorrow? And the anger. A wall slammed down over the memories, caging them in. _Focus._

Allowing herself to float back into the physical world, Margaret stayed in her seat until every last one of the students left. Then she stood, pushing her glasses up her nose and slinging her bag around her shoulder, grabbing her piece of paper with the single symbol. She slowly walked down the stairs to the classroom floor. Professor _Moran_ was sitting at his desk, apparently typing an email. She dropped the paper down onto his computer and didn't wait for his response.

"It's too simple," she sighed, tapping her fingers on his desk to a certain melody she had played earlier. "Of course, none of the people here could solve it if they looked over it a thousand times. But that's their problem. They're looking for a solution. Sometimes there is no solution… sometimes the problem is unsolvable." The professor flipped the paper over, revealing an O with a slash piercing it's rounded figure—undefined.

He hummed to himself-the same melody she was tapping, in time with the percussive bangs of her fingernails. "I didn't think anyone would notice that misplaced negative," he sighed, his Irish lilt familiar, yet chilling with everything that's happened since that fateful day so many years ago. "But then, you don't seem like just anyone. I know you've been following me, Ms…?" He trailed off, obviously asking for a name. He put his head on a fist, blinking slowly—a seemingly bored and unconcerned pose. But the sparks in his eyes told otherwise.

Margaret raised her eyebrows ever so slowly, exaggerating her every move. "You mean to tell me you haven't figured it out yet? You haven't guessed?" She thought it was a possibility, though she hadn't changed much over the years appearance wise. She supposed he was blocking the memory—she had seen the signs before. Margaret continued, "We've met before, you and I… It was a very memorable experience—for me, at least. After all, you were pointing a gun at my head, threatening to blow my brains out in front of my father."

She saw his brown eyes darken with shadows, the breaths of lost souls clouding the darkened glass of a window, and then recognition passed along those gleaming orbs. "Ah, hello again, Ms. Margaret Magnussen."

She smiled a feral grin. This was going to be _such_ a good day. "Hullo, _Professor_ Moriarty."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was bored. _Extremely_ bored. He sat in his chair, hands up in prayer pose under his chin, impeccably dressed with a tan robe over his dark suit. From the depths of his mind, Bach's symphony no. 15 echoed in the background as he strolled through his mind palace, looking for nothing in particular. He had been without a case for the past week. Of course, the lines still formed outside of 221B and client emails still flooded his inbox, but he had found nothing interesting. He had solved every case that came to him from his chair. His brain was under-stimulated and it felt dreadful.

Of course, John was there, but he was currently in the kitchen, attempting to make homemade baby food with the blender. Sherlock supposed he should tell John about animal innards that were previously mixed in the contraption, but this thought occurred a little too late—the army doctor was already pouring the mix of sweet potato and milk into a small bowl.

Rosie sat across from Sherlock in John's chair, playing with Sherlock's ear-hat.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?" he said, irritation seeping through his voice. Sherlock supposed the good doctor must have been talking for a while now. He was too bored to notice.

"I think now would be a good time to tell you that along with that sweet potato and milk mixture, you will also be giving your child traces of rat, pig, and horse intestines."

John dropped the bowl, his upper lip was pulled back in aversion as his hands shot up into the air. "Oh God! What the _hell_ , Sherlock! You think _now_ would be a good time to tell me this? You know I tasted this stuff, right?"

Sherlock couldn't keep the small grin from his face as he responded, "Well, how am I expected to know that? I'm _thinking_." His face quickly contorted back into his signature blank expression, laced with annoyance.

John groaned, muttering something about a case. "Why in the world did you feel the need to blend animal intestines where we make _food_?" John was emphasizing a large amount of his words—Sherlock was finding it quite bothersome.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was an experiment. There was a case a while back where a man killed and puréed his wife's insides along with other animals and proceeded to—"

"Okay, no! Child in the room, Sherlock!" He cried, gesturing towards little Rosie who was still fiddling with the flaps on that peculiar hat. "I don't want to know…. I'm going to go brush my teeth…" He mumbled.

Sherlock snorted. "You go do that."

He had only begun to hear the running of water when the door to 221B Baker Street shot open and a girl burst through, weary and gasping for breath. A series of deductions passed through Sherlock's head almost too fast for him to notice.

 _Late twenties, 166 centimeters, cab, east London, meeting with a …man—possible romantic attachment, large dog—yellow lab, wears contacts, plays violin, died hair, left side of bed, exotic perfume—not name brand, obvious book lover, composer, anxiety issues, not athletic..._

"Mr. Holmes, I believe you've made a huge miscalculation," she exclaimed through heavy breaths.

He raised his eyebrows. This day might just get a little more interesting. "And what's that?" He said, his voice containing the tiniest hint of sarcasm. His fingers tapped that familiar melody as he awaited her answer between labored breaths. Finally, a name rang out through the tight quarters of 221B.

"Jim Moriarty."


	2. A Warm Welcome

**A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that italics indicate a flashback. I hope you enjoy!**

Disclaimer: See chapter one (I own nothing)

* * *

 **Chapter Two: A Warm Welcome**

 _A little girl sat on a park bench, tears sliding slowly down her plump cheeks, her glasses too big it fit her face. Her hair was blond, pulled inexpertly but caringly into pigtails that were at different elevations on her head. She wore a pair of dark jeans and a flowery purple shirt, with a large jacket over it that came down to her knees. The sleeves reached far past her fingers and she had to pull them up in order to angrily wipe the tears from her face. They playground to the left of her was empty and the green field before her was filled with flowers. She despised the flowers—they were too happy._

 _A little boy watched her from across the field. He was a few years older, a lot taller, and curious about the girl in the large jacket. It was obvious, of course—she had just lost someone close to her, probably her mother, maybe a sister. His hair was brown and wild, his dark brown eyes sparkling with something other than hatred. He wanted to talk to her but he didn't know how. He never knew how to talk to people. So he just watched as the girl wiped angrily at her tears and spit in the direction of the flowers._

 _Finally, as the sun was setting, she got up to leave, wrapping the jacket around her small figure and running in the opposite direction, into the woods. The boy expected he would never see her again, and for some odd reason, the thought put a feeling of emptiness in his throat, in his chest._

 _He returned to the park the next day, despite the fact that he was missing a good deal of school, probably for nothing. But the girl returned as well, stumbling out from the forest in a different outfit, but the same large jacket. Fresh tears fell as she sat on the same bench. She wiped them away, spit at the flowers, and then sat and watched, as did he. Then, right before sunset, she left._

 _The boy, against his better judgment, returned to the park the next day, but the girl didn't come. He waited at his same spot across the field and behind the tree, watching that same bench with the eyes of a hawk. He found himself… upset, but why?_

 _He came again the next day and was relieved when he saw the girl again, stomping out from the foliage and sitting her self down aggressively on the bench. The boy took a deep breath. He was going to talk to her. He had to talk to her._

 _He waited until she was done crying, until she had wiped away the tears, until she had spit at the flowers. Then he started across the field. It seemed as if the girl didn't notice him. She just stared ahead into the sky._

 _He sat down next to the girl on the wooden bench, but before the he could introduce himself, the girl spoke._

 _"I was wondering when you were going to come out." Her voice was smooth, aristocratic, and yet dull. Almost uncaring._

 _"You saw me, huh?" The boy asked, hearing his Irish accent clash against her Danish lilt._

 _"Of course," she replied, unconcerned about the stranger who had been stalking her. She continued as if she were talking about the weather: "At first I was suspicious, but you didn't look very frightening and I wasn't going to let you get in the way of my sitting, so I ignored you."_

 _She spoke very knowingly and matter-of-factly for only being seven or eight. "Hm, not very frightening? Some would disagree with that statement…" His countenance held a certain darkness with that statement. "What's your name?"_

 _She gave him a calculating look, again stunning him with her coldness and obvious intelligence. She shrugged. "Margaret," she told him._

 _"My name is James—but you can call me Jim," he grinned._

* * *

Sherlock blinked at the girl standing in the doorway. She seemed to analyze him, gauging for his reaction. Finally, Sherlock recovered. "No…no, of course not—Jim Moriarty is dead. You've been reading too many online blogs. I _saw_ him shoot himself in the head."

"Online blogs? People actually write online blogs? …Well, I suppose it's not a surprise. John Watson has his own blog…" She shook her head as if to clear it. "No! You said that Jim Moriarty shot himself in the head, but he didn't—well, technically he did, but let me explain. According to John's retelling on his blog, recounted by yourself, Jim Moriarty shot himself _through the mouth_ , meaning the path of the bullet, assuming it was ever fired from the gun, would have been concealed.

"If he had shot himself _in the head_ , Mr. Holmes, you would have seen the bullet and it's impact. But you didn't, because it went through the back of his head whilst you were looking at his face. You may have seen blood on the ground, but that's easy to fake. And obviously you didn't check to make sure he was dead. You were too focused on choosing the method of faking your death.

"So, Mr. Holmes, Jim Moriarty is not dead. And judging from the recounts of your adventures, he wouldn't have been so careless."

Sherlock blinked at her rapid explanation. But no—Jim Moriarty couldn't be alive. He had overdosed and put himself in the case of Emelia Ricoletti just to prove it. If Moriarty were alive, he would have been present at the final game he had planned with Eurus—unless he knew Sherlock would win. Unless he had something bigger up his sleeve, when Sherlock was at his least suspecting.

"Explain. Now," he demanded, intrigued by this woman's claim. But at that moment, John Watson walked back into the room, rubbing the side of his face—he had decided to shave, as well as brush his teeth.

"Sherlock, I'm going out to get new sweet potatoes—and a new blender—could you look after Rosie? I'll be back in—Oh, hello! Um, is this a client, Sherlock?" The woman was still standing in the doorway with her mouth open, ready to explain her theory. But she closed it and rerouted.

"In a way," she said. "I'm Morgan. Morgan Adrasteia."

"John, I do believe the blender can wait," Sherlock began. "And I do believe that you will be _immensely_ interested in what Ms… Adrasteia has to say."

The good doctor looked at the clock. "Yeah, I suppose I have time. Rosie's asleep, anyway," he said, moving towards his chair. He picked up the sleeping child into his arms and cradled her before punching the union jack pillow lightly and sitting. Sherlock stood, dragged the wooden chair from the desk and positioned it between the two famous armchairs. "Have a seat, Ms. Adrasteia."

She set her brown bag beside her and sat, dragging her hands down her thighs to rest on her knees. Her hair was a little past her shoulders and a dark shade of brown, almost black—Sherlock believed it was died, judging from the small hints of color on the skin at the side of her head. Her eyes were brown, but she wore contacts. She was shortsighted, Sherlock had deduced, by the way she instinctively leaned in closer to the objects she was trying to see. There were large animal furs on her jeans—dog furs, and white; balance of probability suggested a yellow lab.

Her bag contained three novels, _The Sword of Shannara_ , _The Grapes of Wrath_ , and _Outlander_ , suggesting she was a book lover—she read recreationally, not for class, considering her age. The fact that she had three books with her suggested travel, and judging by the change of clothes in her bag, it would suggest a formal meeting.

The type of clothes suggested a meeting with a man, not a woman, as the kind of dress would give off a vibe of competition to a female. Thinking that through again, if this was a formal meeting with a man, that kind of dress could suggest some type of relationship—most likely sexual, as people often don't go for meaningful relationships with bosses.

In the bag was also a notebook containing musical staffs—she was a composer. Judging by the clef, he would say she was composing for violin. The callouses on her left fingers backed up that deduction.

The type of mud on her shoes indicated east London. The heaviness of her breathing after she ran through the door of 221B signified that she was not athletic. And she was a nail picker, which indicated anxiety.

Sherlock reinforced his previous deductions as Morgan took a breath. "Jim Moriarty is alive, and I can prove it," she said. Sherlock noticed John balking from his chair, but he ignored him.

"I got all of my information from your blog, Dr. Watson, and, as I have already explained to Sherlock, he could not have seen Moriarty shoot himself in the head. From Sherlock's angle, there was no way to tell the bullet was actually fired, except for the sound. But that could have been fabricated in any number of ways. Moriarty even himself admitted that there were snipers standing by to be sure Sherlock jumped from that roof."

Margaret paused, dragging a hand through her hair. Her hands shook slightly as she did. She was probably on a caffeine high, having just arrived back in London from traveling. She drank tea, judging from the absence of the brown stain coffee often left on the lower lip.

"The blood could easily have been faked," she continued. "—A bag that would be punctured as soon as Moriarty fell to the ground. And, of course, Sherlock never looked to make sure Moriarty had actually shot himself. At that point, Sherlock needed only to concentrate on faking his own death."

"Yes, but this is all speculation." Sherlock countered, shaking his head, dark curls bouncing as he did so. "I've thought through it before. It's possible, but balance of probably suggests he did actually die on that rooftop. Eurus was the cause of the messages broadcasted across London, not Jim Moriarty."

"Well no, of course not. Eurus was his pawn, I think. It was a performance he could watch as he planned his next move. And his next move is coming." Her ominous tone sent a chill down John's spine.

"You said you could prove it," Sherlock said tersely. "Do you have actual, physical evidence that Jim Moriarty is alive?" The irritation seeping through his voice was more than evident.

"Well, I suppose I should have opened with that, but yes, I do." She was somewhat scatterbrained, then. Interesting.

Sherlock blinked, gritting his teeth as he demanded to see it.

Morgan pulled out an envelope from behind the books and sheet music. "Well… it took me a while—a few weeks—but I figured that he would definitely be planning something here, in London. So, I searched through any records I could find—traffic cams, security cameras, twitter photos. Eventually, I found him out in east London, getting into a car."

She opened the envelope, pulling out a small stack of photos. And there was Jim Moriarty in a navy blue suit, wearing sunglasses and earphones, climbing into a black car with heavily tinted windows. Morgan flipped through the photos, revealing the car's license plate number, the street name, and the building he had exited from—a residential apartment.

"I tried tracking down the car to see where it went," Morgan continued. "But it was almost as if it had disappeared off the map in-between these two streets." She pulled out another photo showing the two streets. "I suspected a blind spot, but I checked all of the alleys and found nothing. The car never resurfaced."

Now she had Sherlock's attention—he had gone from thinking her a fan with too much time on her hands to an interesting puzzle piece in a new and frightening game. A game that Sherlock couldn't lose.

John put his head in his hand, closing his eyes for a moment. "We're sure it's him? Absolutely sure? I mean he blew his own brains out!" He looked around, but Sherlock didn't seem convinced. "It could just be another one of his games from the grave…"

"I don't think so," Sherlock denied, his eyes glazed over, obviously deep in thought. "I would recognize a fabricated photo. This could have been taken a while ago and put on the traffic cam now, but he wouldn't have accounted for some random girl snooping through traffic cams. His appearance would have to be a direct reveal to me." Sherlock was mostly talking to himself as he held his hands up in the prayer pose under his chin.

John nodded, taking a deep breath. "So he's alive then." He leaned back in his chair, cradling Rosie closer to his body.

"It would appear so."

There was silence, the traffic outside the only indication of living beings in the vicinity. Sherlock's eyes were darting around wildly, obviously searching for something deep in his mind. Morgan shifted in her seat, watching him think, unconsciously picking at her fingernails. John worried about Rosie—he would have to bring her over to Molly's while he and Sherlock investigated. He was frightened. The last thing he wanted was to get his infant daughter involved in a case with such high stakes.

Finally, Sherlock took a breath. "I'll phone Lestrade—get him on the lookout for this plate number if the car is even still in use. John, you and I are going to this street corner and that house. Ms. Adrasteia, thank you for your help. You've been quite… helpful. The doors over there," Sherlock said, his eyes not fully on the present world. He gestured to the door without looking, hand flopping carelessly. John shot him a look, about to open his mouth and apologize for Sherlock before Morgan spoke up.

"What? I'm not leaving Mr. Holmes," she said, determination showing in her features. "I may not be a client, but I gave you this information. I'm not asking for anything in return accept that you allow me to come along."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What would you want with the world's only consulting criminal?"

She shrugged. "I suppose I'm just curious. Sometimes composing can be a little draining, and I need some… adventure. This little case has peaked my interest. I'm not just going to give it up after turning it over to the professionals." She lifted her chin, unwavering in her stance.

Obviously, her compliment worked, as Sherlock didn't protest, just gave a nod of his head and went back to staring into whatever memories he was digging up in his head.

And so, the game was on.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so that's it for this chapter! Sorry it's a little slow now, but it's going to pick up soon and get into some present day scenes with Moriarty ;)**

 **I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review!**


	3. Not At Home

**A/N: Hiya! Thanks so much for reading this far! As a special treat, here's an extra long chapter. Hopefully it's good. Happy reading!**

Disclaimer: For full effect, see chapter one. Summary: I own nothing.

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Not At Home**

 _Margaret's small hands flipped through one of the small children's books her dad insisted she read. Margaret didn't care for children's books—everything was small (except the font, which was annoyingly large). The words were tiny, the plot was insignificant, the characters were dull, and it always taught some boring lesson or another. But her dad loved her, so she read the books—along with the ones she snuck from his shelves. Those ranged from biographies to fantasies to historical fiction novels._

 _But her favorite reading activity was with her dad at night, before bed. She would get under the sheets, her dad would sit by the bed in his wooden rocking chair and he would read aloud to her. Now they were reading_ The Hobbit _. That was what she looked forward to all day. That, and her meetings with Jim._

 _Dad didn't know that Margaret snuck out of the house in the hours before sunset—that was when he had his meetings. That was when she was supposed to be locked in her room without making a sound. If she made a sound, then she would be in big trouble, and she didn't want to be in big trouble._

 _She also didn't want to be bored. So, she settled with sneaking out while daddy's clients came through the door. She walked to the park, navigating through the woods like her mother always used to. And then she sat with Jim._

 _Jim was a few years older than her, and he seemed like the only one who could understand her. They just talked for that hour before sunset, usually about nothing in particular. Sometimes, Jim would talk about his family, how they mistreated him, how the kids at school abused him. But Margaret wouldn't talk about family—couldn't talk about them. That was the one crucial rule she could not break. But Jim never pried. At least, not until a few months after their first meeting._

 _The two were sitting on the park bench together, Margaret wearing the jacket that was much too large on her small frame._

" _Is it any worse?" Margaret asked. "That kid—Carl Powers. Is he still bullying you?"_

 _Jim nodded, anger flashing in his dark eyes. He had a bruise on his cheek, dark smoke dancing across a light sky. Margaret knew it was worse just from glancing at the purple stain, but she knew the only way to get him to talk was to ask._

" _You can see this, can't you?" He said waving at the bruise. But he continued. "Every day, Margaret, this kid… he says…" Jim trailed off, shaking his head. His eyes were watery, but it wasn't sadness that streaked his face. It was anger. Pure, cold hearted anger. "He cornered me after school and… did this. I wanted to kill him. He just makes me so…" Jim stopped. He was never very good with emotions._

" _Angry?" She asked, edging him to continue._

" _Oh, yes. Anger doesn't even cover it." His eyes became thoughtful, flashing with cruel heavenly light. "He has eczema, you know. It would be so simple just to_ slip _something in his medication…" He put his head in his hands. "Its all I can think about… It would just be too easy." He dragged his hands down his face. "He's on the swim team, too. Just slip it in right before a meet and the police will think the kid drowned. Too_ easy _…"_

 _Margaret was silent, thinking about her dad. "My dad says similar things when he thinks I'm not listening …" Margaret stopped, realizing she was talking out loud. Her father didn't talk about hurting anyone physically, not about murder, but about secrets. Bribes. Blackmail. No one was allowed to know. He would be taken away._

" _What about?" Asked Jim. He knew Margaret never talked about her family; except once, when she had confirmed that her mother had died._

 _Margaret sighed. "Nothing, it's silly. He doesn't talk about…hurting people, but… I can't tell you—he wouldn't let me."_

 _Jim frowned. "He's not here now. You can tell me." When Margaret stayed silent, wringing her hands, he continued. "I won't tell anyone—there's no one to tell… You're the only person I trust."_

 _Margaret smiled weakly. Then, taking a deep breath, she told him. She told him about the "clients," the meetings she overheard, and the blackmail. He just sat and listened, façade expressionless._

 _Margaret couldn't help but wonder if that moment of weakness had led up to the point she was at—her father dead and bleeding outside their house, helicopters flying, microphone blaring, and a strange man with curly hair and a gun, hands up, face illuminated by the light. The man who pulled the trigger. Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

Sherlock had been staring at the wall for hours. His light eyes were cloudy, his sharp face expressionless, and his musician's hands unmoving under his chin. John had left to drop Rosie off at Molly's, leaving Morgan and Sherlock alone. The strange woman was lying down on the floor, head where the client's chair had previously stood, and reading a book she had chosen from her bag. She lied still and unmoving, except for the quick darting of her eyes across the pages. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing slow, and her mind completely absorbed in the images that overtook her.

She didn't notice when Sherlock Holmes' eyes finally cleared and he stood, frowning down at the young woman who could have easily lain down on his couch. He stepped over her somewhat dramatically before strolling into the kitchen. Morgan's eyes never left page as the Holmes middle child banged around in the kitchen, simultaneously making tea and slicing pieces of human brain to microwave in different solutions.

Sherlock Holmes was growing rather bored and impatient—John was taking quite a long time to drop off his child. He was probably talking with Molly, conducting some odious social convention he neither new nor cared about.

After microwaving his last slice of brain, making a mental note of the strange color that developed, he turned to his only other source of entertainment—the girl on his floor. Grabbing the tea, he walked over to her spot in-between the two armchairs and cleared his throat. When she didn't respond, he repeated the action, furrowing his brow. This time she looked up slowly, to avoid tearing her eyes from the page until the last possible second.

The girl raised her eyebrows. "Yes?" She asked, still unmoving from her spot on the floor.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked simply.

She shrugged. "Why not?"

Morgan closed her book and sat up, stretching her arms out, over her head until they popped. "I assume this is your attempt at initiating conversation?"

Sherlock choked, giving her an incredulous look as he handed her the tea. Morgan gave a small smile and shrugged, taking a sip of the now cool liquid.

"Have a seat," Sherlock blustered, waving to John's chair before collapsing in his own.

"That sounded like a question," Morgan replied before grabbing her tea and standing, stretching out her back. Her 1989 The Whoconcert t-shirt lifted, exposing her flat, pale stomach. Two pops in her back. Then, she put the tea on the side table along with her novel of choice, _Outlander_ , before plopping down in her own seat.

Sherlock was still frowning when she finally looked to his face, then around the flat as if looking for something, or just avoiding his gaze.

"I only meant…" He answered, trailing off. "Why lay on the floor?"

"You're the master of deduction. Why don't you tell me?"

His eyes darted back and fourth over her body before glazing over for a moment of thought. Then, "I would say it's preference, but you did imply that there is a deduction to be made, so I will consider the alternative. Every time you switched positions, you stretched in some way, popping your back. So, I would say, given this bit of information that you could have spinal problems. The couch would cause it to bend the wrong way when you sank into the cushions, so you opted for the flat floor. Am I correct?"

She smiled a bit. "Indeed. I've never gone to the doctor for it, but it does hurt sometimes if I lie flat." She seemed mildly impressed as she picked at her nails. Then she sniffed lightly at the air. "Where you cooking something?" Morgan inquired, looking up once more.

"Oh! I was microwaving slices of human brain in different solutions to observe the color and structure changes." Holmes seemed almost excited while giving his explanation.

"Is there a crying need for that at the moment?" Morgan laughed.

Sherlock just shrugged. "I was curious."

The two went back to comfortable silence, analyzing each other, Morgan sipping from the cup of English breakfast tea.

Sherlock interrupted the silence. "So… What _do_ you want with the world's only consulting criminal?"

Morgan frowned. "I thought I already answered this question."

"You did," Sherlock agreed. "But you lied."

"I didn't lie. I'm bored. I wanted something to do, and I didn't want to give up something that I worked on for a few weeks."

"A few weeks?"

"Well, analyzing John's blog and coming to my conclusion only took three days. Finding the photos took longer, though."

"And where did your business trip fit into all of this?"

She frowned. Then, "Oh! The change in clothes, right? Well, I needed to pay the bills somehow, even if I hate that damned job." She scowled. "I just took my computer with me and sifted through the traffic cams between meetings."

"What, you hacked into the police data base?" He said, bemused.

She merely nodded, taking another sip from the cup. "Their security is quite limited."

"That's what I keep telling them," he muttered, rolling his eyes. Then, he frowned again. "Where did you go to college?"

"I didn't," she replied.

"No?"

A nod. "I figured it was pointless to pay someone to teach me something over the course of four years when I could learn it myself in four months. Plus, it sounded dreadful. All those drunk children and required classes." She snubbed her nose.

"Ah, of course! You're a proper genius."

She shrugged, smiling weakly. "That's what the doctors say. My mother had me tested. IQ of 182, apparently."

Sherlock hummed appreciatively. "So, what have you taught yourself over the years then?"

"Let's see… Composing and music theory, psychology, chemistry, physics, English literature, and some math, though I hate the subject. I don't particularly enjoy handling numbers."

Sherlock hummed again. He opened his mouth to ask another question before a chime cut him off. His phone.

He sighed, standing and walking into the kitchen to silence the device. There was a pause as he answered it, listening intently to the voice on the other end.

"We'll be right there," he said before hanging up. "Get up woman! We're leaving now!"

"What? What about John?"

"It was he. Molly is missing. He's looked everywhere and found blood in her flat. We're going to investigate."

Morgan stood, grabbing her coat as Sherlock turned up his collar. Then, the two walked out from Baker Street and into the rainy London evening.

* * *

Margaret Magnussen stood in front of the window, looking out onto the rainy streets of London. It was the beginnings of spring; the trees were budding with the beginnings of leaves, sprouting flowers poked out from under the dark, wet soil. And the sky was grey with relentless rain clouds. All in all, it was quite dreadful.

She took a sip of her green tea from the table to her right. It was covered in books, papers, and dishes she hadn't bothered to clean. The whole flat looked like this—books strewn about, instruments lying on the floor, and her poor dog in the middle of it all. It looked a bit like a tornado had wrecked the place, but Margaret preferred to call it organized chaos. After all, she never lost a thing.

Laetitia growled from her place on the ground, by Margaret's legs, as footsteps sounded from the hall. Margaret knew his gait, and could guess at the identity of the man accompanying him.

The lock to her door turned and the man stepped in, closing the door behind him. She didn't remember giving him the key.

"Greetings Moriarty," she said, without turning around. "And hello to you, too, Sebastian!" She called. Margaret thought she heard him grunt in response from his place in the hall. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Laetitia backed her up with a growl.

Jim hummed, tapping a melody on the pant leg of his ridiculously expensive suit. "Is that a .44 magnum in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Margaret scoffed, removing the loaded gun from her jacket and waving it haphazardly in the air. "It is indeed. I named him Winchester," she sighed, stroking the muzzle. The gun was placed on the messy table before she continued. "Now if you'll tell me why you're here—"

"I don't think I've met this one before," Jim interrupted, stepping closer and allowing the dog to sniff at his hand. "My brother had a dog when I was young. Though, if I seem to remember correctly, a train hit it. Poor brother dear would mope about the house all day, _Oh where, oh where has my puppy gone?"_ He sang. Laetitia was licking at his hand and Jim pat her on the head. "Quite a delicious looking animal."

Margaret scowled. "If you're looking for an audience, go blubber to Sebastian. He's put up with enough of your shit—I'm sure he knows how to tune it out by now." She could have sworn she heard muffled laughter from the hall. She gave a small grin. "My time is too valuable to waste upon your reveries."

Jim stood, his dark brown irises piercing like daggers. He took a step closer, towering above her by only a few inches, though she was wearing slight heels. He put a hand to his heart. "I'm hurt," he exclaimed with all his melodrama. "Isn't it proper for friends to share things about their past with each other?"

Margaret glowered at his seeming innocent face. But she could see those shadows running behind his eyes. Giving him a smile that would send most men running, she grabbed his tie and pulled him closer to her face. "We are not friends," she ground out. "Business partners for the moment, sure, but friends? Not a chance in hell."

He pouted. "And just when I though this was getting romantic."

Growling, she released the most dangerous criminal in the world and shoved past him, jumping over the back of her white couch to lay on its soft surface. "If you're here for no other reason to annoy me, then get out."

Jim Moriarty smoothed out his tie, muttering something about a Westwood before walking over to her living room and sating in a chair opposite the couch. Setting his head atop his hands, he whispered, "As much as I love playing with your nerves, dearest, we have matters to discuss."

Margaret sighed. "I don't see what there is to discuss. The great Sherlock Holmes has been alerted to your presence and part one of my _brilliant_ plan is currently in motion," she snarled.

"Let me see it again," Jim demanded, holding out his hand. "Though, I don't know how you'll ever find it in this mess," he said with distaste, looking about the room.

" _Organized chaos,_ " Margaret barked, walking over to the table and shifting around a few novels before coming to her notebook, opened to the correct page. She walked back to the living room and handed him the book.

Moriarty grabbed her wrist, just after she handed it to him. He held her soft flesh to his nose and sniffed delicately. "Mm, delicious. Water lily?" Margaret snarled, snatching her wrist back. But the criminal only chuckled, licking his lips.

She sat back down in her spot, impatiently tapping her foot as the criminal read her notebook like the daily weather report. Not that Jim Moriarty read the weather.

"Well? Is it acceptable to your standards."

"This is god-awful poetry, but it will work," he sighed.

She gave an exasperated growl. "You were the one who insisted on the fucking poetry."

* * *

 **A/N: Eee! Plans are in motion, schemes are running, and wheels are turning… Thanks so much for reading! Please write a review, whether it is good or bad (constructive criticism, please)! Seriously, I would love to here what you think!**


	4. Riddles in the Dark

**A/N: Hey there! Sorry about the wait for this one. I hit quite a spell of writer's block and I could not think of how I wanted this chapter executed. But once I actually sat down at the computer (which is harder than it sounds), the ideas poured out. At least, they did after lots and lots of tea. Do enjoy!**

Disclaimer: For the fancy version, see chapter one. (Sum-up: I own nothing)

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Riddles In the Dark**

Sherlock had hustled Morgan out the door of 221B Baker Street and hailed a cab faster than she thought was possible. After shoving her inside and closing the door behind them, he barked the address at the cabbie and sat as if nothing was wrong. The ride to Molly's flat had been completely silent—Sherlock was lost in his mind, fingertips caressing his chin while his stormy eyes clouded over. He was worried, even if he wouldn't show it.

Morgan used the quiet time to mull over what had happened within the span of just two hours. She had convinced the great detective that his archenemy was at rise again, she had joined his team in less than a few seconds, and then she found herself telling him more about herself than she ever told anyone else. Morgan couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement over the whole affair, despite the danger. She had spent days researching, and then weeks sorting through photos, searching for the great criminal. She wasn't about to give up her greatest distraction.

The pair finally arrived at the small flat after Sherlock had snarled at the cabbie to drive faster. He even threw an extra twenty quid at the man before heaving himself out of the cab and dragging Morgan with him.

John had let them into the flat after Sherlock buzzed him at least ten times. The run up the stairs left Morgan in need of breath, and the sight inside of the bright apartment room knocked even more air out of her. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows, sparkling on a pool of blood that covered the hardwood floors. The crimson substance covered every surface—the corner of the dining room table was coated with it, and what appeared to be hair and chunks of skin; the white kitchen cabinets where painted with rosy stripes, where the victim had tried to climb to her feet, fingers scraping against the wood. The pool of blood in the center of the room was dragged out over the living room carpet and kitchen tiles—the girl had been attempting to crawl away, judging by the marks. The trail ended where a man with large boots had dragged the female to the window. Morgan ran over to the end of the blood trail, but there were no tracks outside. It was as if the two had vanished.

Suddenly, she felt a large hand wrench at the back of her jacket, jerking her away from the crime scene with one tug. She barely registered the suited men crowding the room before a booming voice interrupted her thought process.

"And who do you think you are?" It demanded from behind. Morgan struggled with her bound hands and brought her foot up from behind, hitting the large man in the groin before wrenching her hands away and swinging, aiming for his face. Her knuckles hit home.

Before the glory could wash over her, more suited men jumped on her, restraining her arms and tugging her away. It was then than Morgan realized she had incapacitated a government official. Whoops.

Once she was fully restrained, she heard the sound of strolling footsteps and the clicking of a cane—or umbrella. "Well, well, what do we have here?" She heard the entitled voice muse. Another government man wearing a posh suit appeared from a side room, his hand resting on a dark umbrella, though there were no rain clouds in sight. "Would you happen to be the latest interest of my dear little brother?" His eyebrows were raised high on his head, lips puckered in an expression of half amusement, half boredom.

"Ah, Mycroft, how good of you to join us," Sherlock replied with an immeasurable amount of sarcasm, his face mimicking the same expression. "Would you mind telling your goons to release Ms. Adrasteia here so that we may continue our investigation? Thank you." The expression fell right back into blankness.

The big brother rolled his eyes. "She assaulted a government official. I hardly think doing such a thing would be appropriate."

"It was self defense," Morgan denied, tapping her foot lightly on the floor. "For all I know, he could have been a rapist. Or the kidnapper that took you friend."

The man she attacked rose from his spot on the floor, rubbing his cheek and glaring daggers at her.

"Never sneak up to a girl," she snarled in his direction. His scowl deepened as he brushed off his costume.

"Okay, enough with this," Mycroft muttered, waving his hand limply. "Release her. We don't have _time_ for this nonsense."

The buff men released her limbs with a huff and returned to their work, collecting samples and taking photos.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sherlock complained. "Don't you have a country to run? A queen to serve tea? A _date_ with Lady Smallwood?"

Mycroft scoffed. "I am here, dear brother, because this is obviously an attack aimed directly at you, and therefore at me. Which happens to be a threat to national security." The tall man twisted his umbrella, leaning on it with his two hands. "That, and John called to alert me to the situation. Moriarty has returned, after all this time, and apparently curious _girls_ are more effective at finding audacious criminals than our 24 hour security monitoring." He looked rather put out at that.

"Yes, yes! British security sucks, you're here to intervene, and I'm growing rather bored now, so could you _please_ remove your cronies from the room so I can examine this crime scene!"

Mycroft sighed and waved his arm, signaling the men to leave. "Always the grown up," he muttered.

It was at that moment when John burst through the front door. "Oh!" He exclaimed as he came close to head butting with the one of the dark-suited men. He turned to Sherlock, face grim. "I just went to drop off Rosie at Lestrade's while Mycroft handled some things. Did you find anything?"

Mycroft answered as Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. "I'm afraid my dear brother here cleared the room before any progress could be made." He gave Sherlock a pointed look. "I'll give you five minutes. Then you're out." The angular man gave his umbrella a twirl one last time before exiting the room, leaving the trio alone in the red-painted room.

Once Big Brother was gone, Morgan's breathing increased suddenly to the point of hyperventilation.

John moved towards her, concerned. "Are you okay? D'you need some air? I know this is a lot to take in… Sherlock and I are used to it, is all."

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine," she assured, as Sherlock gave her a bemused look, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. "I—I just need to open a window." She ran to the same spot she had stood when that brute had grabbed her and shoved the window open, taking a breath of fresh air. She rested her hands on the sill. "Sorry. The smell… It's very strong."

"No need to apologize," John answered. "I'm barely holding it together myself." That was when Morgan noticed—his eyes were red where he had wiped the tears away, there were red scabs at his hair line where he had been scratching, and his figure was shifting back and fourth as if he would soon explode from his body and fly away. He had just lost his friend. Molly Hooper was probably in great pain, if not dead, and John was in distress (even if he wouldn't show it in front of Sherlock).

"Oh God—fuck—sorry! I'm not so great with the whole friends thing, but I know you must be feeling awful right now, and I'm over here complaining about the smell, and I'm sorry if I'm being insensitive…" Morgan stumbled over her apology. "The point is we're wasting time. We need to find her."

John nodded, giving her a small smile before looking over to Sherlock, who was traipsing around the flat, paying no attention to the pair's awkward exchange. Muttering to himself, he said, "The man was about 188 centimeters by the stride, size ten feet, left handed judging by the angle of his body when he bashed her head into this table. A henchman of Moriarty's sent to fake this crime scene…probably to distract us from that house. Damn it! Molly's not hurt but she will be if we don't hurry!"

"What? What do you mean, fake crime scene? How do you deduce that?"

"Some of this blood is real, I'm sure, but you're a doctor John! If a person of Molly's slim figure were to lose this much blood, she would be dead! But that's not the aim here. This is Jim Moriarty—Jim Moriarty likes to play with his food, and this attack is for me, not her. If he was going to kill her, he'd leave her body displayed here for me to see."

"He's right," Morgan interjected. "The kidnapper smashed her head against the table to knock her unconscious, but most of this is likely fake—donated or animal blood. We need to get to that building we saw Moriarty exit."

They all nodded in agreement, letting a moment of silence overtake them. Sherlock pulled up his collar while John simultaneously straightened his jacket. And then, the trio was off to hail a cab.

* * *

It was the beginnings of night when they arrived on the quiet, abandoned street. A thick blanket of clouds covered the beauteous night sky, leaving the threesome cloaked in darkness as their cabbie pulled away.

"Shouldn't we have asked him to stay?" Morgan whispered. "This neighborhood is not exactly a place I would like to spend a dark evening."

"The cabbie would attract attention," Sherlock replied, gruffly as he started into the building

John walked up to the door first, pulling a gun out from his jacket pocket before he allowed the door to swing open. Darkness clouded the house. The silence lurking in the hall was like the pressure of water, squeezing the lungs, making every breath difficult. Dust coated each surface and floated in the air, dancing like wisps on a phantom wind. The floorboards creaked under the trio's feet as they cautiously walked down a long hall, leading into the kitchen. All the appliances were missing, wires hanging from the walls. There was no food in sight, and the cabinet doors were rotted or absent. Beside the kitchen was the dining room, where only a long table remained. Atop the table was a single white dress, tailored to fit a slim, fashionable, figure. It was a spotlight against the dark dustiness of the deserted town house.

Sherlock's posture became incredibly stiff as he edged over to the dress, looking like a wounded animal. John answered the question in Morgan's head with a name, whispered on that ghostly wind. "Irene Adler."

Atop the silken garment was a note. Sherlock grabbed the paper, his eyes wild as they darted back and fourth across the page. He slammed the paper back onto the table and brought his hands up to his chin, muttering to himself. John and Morgan quickly ran up to the table, reading the note.

 _If you thought you were done, you were quite wrong—_

 _Buckle up Mr. Holmes; our game is quite long._

 _If Rosie burns red, then John turns quite blue,_

 _To save his child, what, Sherlock, will happen to you?_

 _Confess to the camera, and your little friends too—_

 _A secret of death; I'll give you a clue._

 _Heroes don't exist!_

 _Now you are dismissed._

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my god…" John pulled out his phone from his pocket and proceeded to dial a number, hands trembling as if his very core was quaking. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! He's not picking up—Lestrade— _Rosie_! What does this even MEAN? Secret of death? Heroes don't exist? …SHERLOCK!"

The great detective snapped out of his trance, hands shaking as much as John's. As his stormy eyes cleared, he began to explain. "I've said that before—to you—the day we became fugitives and Moriarty revealed himself as Rich Brook… But that's not it, that didn't mean anything to him-Moriarty. No, I said it once more…." Sherlock was pacing back and fourth across the dining room whilst John's eyes were wild, tracking his every movement and sparkling with water more and more as the minutes passed by. "THAT'S IT! That day—the day I shot Magnussen—"

"Wait—WHAT?" Morgan interjected, mouth agape. Someone else had shot Magnussen, the bullet had come from—No. Of course not. The video was fabricated.

"No, no, you've got it. There." There was a satisfied twinkle in the detective's eyes as he saw Morgan reach her conclusion. It disappeared as quickly as it came. "NO! I told him 'I'm not a hero; I'm a high-functioning sociopath' right before I shot him in the face. Moriarty must want me to confess this on tape."

John's breathing was heavy, his face redder than Morgan thought possible. "I don't care about _Moriarty_ , I want to know where the FUCK he's hiding my daughter!"

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Morgan asked. John's rage filled eyes turned to her.

"Not. To. Me." The sound of his voice was animalistic with fury and pain. The shadows dancing across his face gave Morgan all she needed to know about how he was feeling. She treaded carefully; these were dangerous waters.

"She must be at Magnussen's mansion," Morgan explained, as gently as possible. "It's the only logical place, if Sherlock is right about that phrase. It's where he was shot."

The doctor nodded. "I'm phoning Mycroft," John growled.

Sherlock frowned. "What for?"

"We're borrowing his fucking helicopter." With that the man stepped outside into the lonely street, only one thing on his mind—the only piece of his wife he had left. He couldn't lose her too.

Sherlock and Morgan were left inside the timeworn house, its silence choking the air out of them both.

"So you're going to confess to Magnussen's murder. Just like that?" Morgan asked, genuinely curious about the pair's friendship.

"Of course. It's not like I care what the public thinks of me," he replied simply. "Plus, I'm her godfather."

"What?"

"Rosie—I'm her godfather. I do believe that implies I have a certain level of responsibility over her."

Morgan hummed. "I believe you're right."

The pair fell into a comfortable silence until they heard the beating of the helicopter.

"What about Molly Hooper? And Irene Adler? It seems odd to throw them at you and then distract you with a different bone," Morgan wondered aloud.

"That's Jim Moriarty. He's going to hold them over me until the end. He wants me to know he's in control. He loves to play with his food."

"If it makes you feel any better, that was some shitty poetry."

The great detective scoffed. "Indeed."

The helicopter landed, filling their ears with the sound of its beating blades. The two glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes. Sherlock lifted his coat collar. Morgan shoved her hands into her jean pockets.

"Into battle, then."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks so much for the views and the follows! It really does mean a lot! Reviews are love! I hope you enjoyed.**


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